


A Faux Human, a Faux Ás and a Faux Zombie Went to a Bar…

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [29]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Laufey (Marvel) Has Issues, Laufey (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Lost child found, Mama laufey, Mind Control, POV Laufey (Marvel), POV Third Person Limited, References to Childbirth, Stream of Consciousness, Traumatic childbirth, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28604448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: …And plans went out of wack, in there, for all concerned.(Disclaimer: Not a crackfic, and not humorous either.)
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel), Laufey (Marvel) & Týo (OC)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49
Collections: Finished111, The Land of Ice and Snow





	A Faux Human, a Faux Ás and a Faux Zombie Went to a Bar…

**Author's Note:**

> Story notes:  
> 1. Despite what it looks like at first, the story is _not_ a modern-time AU. We happen to just be plopped right into the modern venue. It is not a crackfic, either, or even a humorous story.  
> 2. In Rey-verse, the jötnar are 3-sexed and neutral-gendered. The norms, traditions, politics etc in their culture are influenced by this fact.  
> 3. We will be taking the ride through Laufey’s neutral-gendered third-person-limited POV. And if they sound rather young in this, their private musings, well, they are indeed not old, at least inside.  
> 4. Týo, the OC featured in this story, is the same as featured in a few of my other stories, namely _Nanny, Pappy, Mammy_ , _Through the Ice of the Beholder_ , _Freedom_ , and _A Brat of the Highest Degree_.  
> 5. There is a rather vivid impression of parental horror and recollection of traumatic childbirth towards the end of the story. Please beware; and, if you would like to continue reading, please make sure that you are in a safe environment in all the ways that count.
> 
> Glossary:  
> elða: seiðr, magic (as inborn sense and innate power, not necessarily skill)  
> Fié: Laufey’s nickname  
> maé: the Song: a mental-and-verbal way of communication unique to the jötnar, musical and otherwise, also referring to mental communication, awareness and perception as an inborn sense of the jötnar and not necessarily a skill  
> Midgard: Earth  
> milaða: jötun, frost giant  
> milaðen: jötnar, frost giants  
> Útgarð: current capital city of Jötunheim, the realm of the frost giants  
> Ýmirheim: Jötunheim, the realm of the frost giants
> 
> Started on: 19th May 2020 at 10:33 PM  
> Finished on: 7th January 2021 at 09:28 AM

Laufey Bergelmir-childe is having a bad day.

A _very, very, very bad day_ , in fact.

Worse than the usual, which are already very bad by default since _at least_ four centuries ago.

Because today marks the one-thousand-two-hundred-and-ninety-fifth year after the – _very, very, very painful_ – birth of their first-and-last womb-children, whom they lost anyway right after; one to death and the other to kidnapping.

And, just like all the years and centuries before, they cannot bear staying in Útgarð, where it all happened.

Not where their seed-children – _the cause of their loss of their twins_ – are, and not while there is _even the slimmest indication_ that their kidnapped half-a-twin child is yet alive, and _especially_ not while it remains only an _indication_ – a tenuous sense that still links them with the child _but never presents them the child themself_.

This year, they cannot even bear to stay in Ýmirheim _at all_ , somehow.

Hence they are here, in Midgard, in a random drinking establishment in one of its cities, which is better than in many places in the Nine and outside of it – quieter and cleaner, at least – but, most importantly, _different from anywhere in Ýmirheim_ ; in their warm-weather form that approximates a smaller, non-elemental species such as the humans and the æsir, too, and wearing the attire that they have been using in their visits to Midgard this last century.

They are seated at a secluded corner that overlooks all the egress points they can think of, nursing not only a random drink that tastes rather foul on their tongue but also – _especially_ – the ambience of the place – the air, the people, the furniture, the illumination. The main attendant has been throwing them annoyed glances, perhaps because they have not finished this drink, let alone ordering more, since… some time ago; but they ignore him with practised ease, busy soaking in all the sensations and evading any thoughts of home instead of… well, whatever the drink is. Týo will intercept him, anyway, should it be necessary.

Early in the afternoon as it is, and with Midgard’s day generally being when the sun is up, the pub is nearly empty. Including them and Týo, there are only four patrons at this time; and the two strangers – males, both – seem to wish to drown in the ambience without interacting with anybody else, as well, for they are seated quite apart from each other and the two warm-weather-formed milaðen.

And then, the front door to the establishment jerks open, nearly soundlessly, bringing in a rush of hot air from outside and….

They frown, and gear themself up for a battle, also to leave this sadly perfect pub.

Because the newcomer is yet another human, yet another male if garbed rather differently from the other males here, but blank-eyed and blank-minded, with another’s elða – _tainted_ elða – wrapped round him.

He is a _living puppet_ , and they are sure that whoever made him into this mockery of life will not hesitate from attacking anyone first and never ask later, if it suits the tainted puppeteer’s purpose.

He only goes to the counter and asks for drinks for two, _for now_ , but it is not a reason to lower one’s guard, as it could very well be just a ruse for this very purpose.

However, for all their preparation, the next person to come into the pub still manages to punch a huge and very, very, very powerful fist into their gut without ever actively doing anything.

Because they can never have prepared themself to see a _milaða_ clad in the ridiculous clothes Asgardians prefer, and see features _so much like theirs_ on the said milaða’s face, twisted in a mockery of pleased anticipation, and sense the young soul – _a damaged soul, a broken mind_ – stuffed in a body far too mature for them, and feel _the tainted elða_ coming from the _all-too-familiar_ milaða _who is also being mostly controlled by the taint_ , and feel – _horribly, acutely feel_ – how _the link with their remaining womb-child thrums into full life_ as their eyes and elða meet with those of the said milaða’s.

Their _womb-child_! An _Asgardian_ , a _tainted_ mockery of both child and adult with a damaged soul _and an even more damaged mind_ , who has _tainted another_ , who is even now _sneering hatefully at them_.

And now they _also_ realise that this broken child is _also_ the second prince of _Asgard_ , the one who accompanied the handful of Asgardians invading Ýmirheim and sparking a second war last year, the one who tried to tempt them to _kill Voðen_ and tried to _kill them_ in the act, the one who was rumoured to have _died_ soon after in a fit of _madness_.

_Something_ veiled their perception – _their link with the child_ – that time, but now no longer, and they cannot decide – _cannot care less_ – whether this is a good thing or not.

It is definitely a very, very, very _painful_ thing, regardless.

Their throat vibrates, their eyes sting, their sight wavers, and they can remember _vividly_ a pair of new, curious souls sprouting from their own, linked tightly with theirs and fed concepts of home-family-safety-protection-belonging-cherish by them with joyful relish, a pair of little, growing bodies swimming and cavorting in their own belly, safe and sound and relishing in their presence and those of each other’s, an enchanted mace bashing against the then home of their children despite all protections, swung by the strength and eager bloodlust of an ás in his prime, a horrible, terrible, squeezing, throbbing, tearing sensation as they desperately – despite all pain and exhaustion of their own – _had to_ push the children – _just half-way ready for the outside world_ – one by one out of the ruined womb that could no longer support those confused, terrified little lives, through the passage not meant for the delivery of even half-to-term tiny babies, and the loss – _the loss, the loss, the loss_ – afterwards despite all the blood and tears and effort.

There are other noises all round them, other souls, other sensations, but all that they know – all that they _care about_ , despite the horror and agony and loss – are the recollections of _that day_ one millennium, two centuries and ninety-five years ago.

Somebody – Týo? – moves their body, ushers them away, but they only care about it – only return to reality – when a _very unfamiliar body_ with a _very familiar soul_ if _still tainted_ is guided – thrust? – into their arms, into the scope of their presence.

Like what _never happened_ one millennium, two centuries and ninety-five years ago.

“Speak it,” the guider – Týo, it is Týo – instructs, pleads, urges. “Speak it, speak it, Fié.”

And Laufey Bergelmir-childe obeys with alacrity.

Like they did – _managed to do_ despite everything – one millennium, two centuries and ninety-five years ago, they put a hand coated in their elða on the chest of the struggling body in their arms and, with their voice coated with their maé, and their presence – their power that used to shelter and protect _three_ souls instead of _one_ – encompassing the _two_ of them, proclaim, “Loptr Laufey-childe.”

Because the body _does_ belong to Loptr, their _surviving_ half-a-twin womb-child. Damaged, even broken, but _still alive_ , and _here in their arms_.

And, despite the hateful sneer the child sent them earlier, _acknowledgement_ flows into them through their rekindled link, strengthening the bond.

_And getting rid of the taint, just so_.

Because the link – _the acknowledged bond_ – between a dam – a _mother_ – and their child is a fierce and jealous thing indeed, unable and very much _unwilling_ to suffer anything that tries to come between the two of them.

The fury of the mother of a broken, enslaved child, _even more_.


End file.
